Chapter Twenty
Abigail combed her fingers through her damp hair, taming each snarl one at a time as if the benign act could pull her scattered thoughts into some semblance of order.
Her gaze drifted to the closed door and her pulse stuttered.
The memory of Mr. Moreau’s mouth on her clung like the droplets of humidity gathered on the window.
She gave a jerky shake of her head, trying to focus on getting ready; except, her thoughts kept returning to earlier.
It had been astonishing, the way he had touched her, the way his tongue had claimed her most private place without abandon—the way wicked heat had coiled through her with such urgency, she’d nearly lost herself entirely. The same heat that even now returned.
She’d never imagined she could be so wanton.
She coughed, chastising herself for allowing her mind to linger there.
Yet even as she tried to rationalize, her body rebelled.
She could not deny the way her very soul seemed to thirst for him.
Not just the pleasure he’d wrung from her, but the steadiness in his eyes when he looked at her, the way he’d uttered her name as if it were sacred.
Every touch had carved itself into her, claiming a space she hadn’t known existed.
What did it all mean?
Her gaze dropped to her lap. It was nothing more than infatuation.
A dangerous sort, perhaps born of proximity.
Circumstance and the thrill of survival.
Yes, he was undeniably handsome in his own rugged way, and his quiet and sure strength had drawn her in without her even realizing it.
But there was a line. One she should not cross again.
One night. One morning. It need not define her.
Even if her body yearned for more.
Even if she had begged him to cross that very line again only minutes ago.
With a groan, she stood. She needed to focus on returning home, not dwell on a night of stolen pleasure.
After escaping Thorne and surviving the hurricane, the promise of returning to Savannah loomed closer than it had in over a month.
She could walk her favorite streets, see beloved faces, resume her courtship with Mr. Ainsley.
The thought stilled her.
She hadn’t truly thought of him in days.
A rush of shame flooded through her. It seemed unthinkable he had vanished from her memory so completely.
Same as earlier, her mind failed to summon his image.
She took a steadying breath. Going back to Savannah would be good for her.
The familiar cloak of propriety and expectation would help bury the memory of Mr. Moreau and all the wicked, delicious things they had done together.
She swallowed past the conspicuous lump in her throat.
Georgia was her home. She belonged there.
Not here in this rough and tumble town, not stuck on a swaying ship.
Especially not in the tangled wilderness of the bayou with a man who stirred desires she scarcely knew she possessed.
And yet, try as she might, she could not dismiss the hold he had on her.
His commanding presence, the way he moved, how storms swirled in his eyes when he looked at her. All of it lingered.
More than she cared to admit.
Abigail twisted her hair into a loose knot and blew a long breath out.
She was a practical, disciplined woman. She would return to Savannah, to the world she knew, to the life that awaited her there.
She would—must—treat what had happened to her in this faraway port as a single, extraordinary event.
No more significant than a dream.
Except, the soft ache between her legs reminded her it would never be just a dream.
She clenched her fists in her lap, willing her mind elsewhere: counting the planks on the floor, the measured rises and falls of her own breaths.
The crisp scent of soap drifted from her hair, and she smiled.
It had washed away more than the last few days’ worth of grime.
It served as a reminder that hope had not been lost, of simple comforts she had once taken for granted, and—before she could stop it—of slick fingers sweeping down her side and between her legs.
Traitorous mind.
The click of a key jolted her from her spiraling thoughts, and she straightened, dropping her hands to her lap.
Mr. Moreau stepped inside, the morning light catching the dark curls framing his face.
He carried a tray with bread, a wedge of cheese, and a coffee pot.
The aroma of the bitter brew filled her lungs as he set it down in front of her.
“Thought you might be hungry. It’s not much, their cook didn’t come in this morning.”
She rose, smoothing her skirt with a hand that refused to steady. “Thank you. It looks lovely.”
He busied himself with the coffee, his elbow brushing her hip.
A rush of sparks spread from the touch, and she took a quick step back, pulse aching with awareness.
He glanced up with nothing more than a flicker of curiosity passing through his gaze before he returned to his task.
She flushed at his indifference and turned away, straightening her skirts.
“I’ve sent the men back to the harbor to make sure it’s safe. As soon as they send word, we’ll rejoin everyone on the Siren.”
She nodded and moved to the narrow window.
The morning had grown bright, almost as if it were in denial that a storm had even occurred.
Yet the street below bore the marks of the hurricane’s wrath.
Shingles, splintered boards, and broken shutters littered the cobbles, while overturned carts and scattered crates hinted at the chaos that had passed through the city in the night.
A scrape came from the desk, and she flinched.
Every time he moved in the room behind her, she recalled his hands on her, the heat of his mouth, the sound of her name on his lips.
Her fingers flexed at her sides, trying to wrest control of her racing thoughts, but each shift of his weight, each quiet clink of the cups he set down, sent a fresh shiver curling through her.
She pressed her palm to the window frame, as if bracing herself against both the world outside and the storm within her.
“—be long.”
She twisted, blinking at the expectant look on his face and searched for an appropriate answer to whatever he might have said. “Yes, of course.”
Her gaze swiveled out the window, searching for anything to keep her thoughts from tangling again. Over shattered rooftops and broken palms, tracing the scars the storm had left behind, she followed the disarray spread below.
Down the street, a small group of men approached, coats dark against the glare of sun from the wet cobbles. The men returning already? No. One of them trailed behind a few paces, tall and commanding. She squinted, her breath catching as recognition flared through her.
Her hand flew to her throat. “Mr. Moreau.”
“What is it?” He crossed over when she pointed down the street to where the men picked their way past a pile of debris. He leaned close, shoulder grazing hers as he scanned the street.
“Son of a…” He cursed beneath his breath, the sound low and dangerous. “Thorne.”
Before she could speak, he seized the curtain and yanked it closed, plunging the room into shadow. “Away from the window.” He didn’t give her time to react, taking hold of her wrist and pulling her with him against the wall, one arm wrapped around her waist.
They stood in tense silence, her heart hammering. A creak from the floorboards in the hall made them both flinch. Her pulse beat so wildly, she was certain he must hear it. After several agonizing seconds, he dropped his arm and moved to the window, parting the curtain just enough to peer through.
“They’re gone.”
She swallowed. “Are you certain?”
“No telling where they went. But it’s not safe here.” He turned to her, his decision already burning in his eyes. “We need to get back to the ship now, before that son of a bitch finds us.”
He moved efficiently, sliding his sword into the sheath at his belt, shoving what few things he’d brought back into a canvas bag.
She lingered behind him, caught between the impulse to help and the knowledge that any misstep could slow them down.
He stopped just in front of her, heat radiating from him in waves, the faint mix of soap and salt still clinging to his skin.
His gaze held hers, dark and unreadable. “Stay close, be ready to run if I tell you to.”
She nodded and he took her hand in a firm grip, the strength in his fingers a quiet reassurance. Together, they slipped out into the hallway and edged down the stairs. They lingered in the shadowed stairwell while he scanned the common room.
“Clear.”
Outside, they squinted against bright sunlight.
After a few cautious steps, they hugged the shadowed side of the street, moving toward the harbor and the questionable safety of the sea.
The air hung thick with humidity, the port’s clamor muffled beneath the rapid thrum of her heartbeat.
Mr. Moreau guided her down the narrow lane, their feet splashing through puddles and over scattered branches.
He remained silent, his gaze constantly swinging left to right.
When they passed a crooked alley that reeked of fish and mud, he caught her elbow and tugged her into it. Once off the street, he chanced a quick glance back. “Keep your head low.”
She gathered her skirts in her fists, keeping her eyes on the ground as she stepped over a pile of broken shingles. They entered a courtyard choked with storm debris and he turned, bracing his hands around her waist to lift her over the wreckage.
Her breath caught, the heat from his touch strong enough to dull the edges of her fear.
He set her down. “Almost there. The harbor is just ahead.”